


no help

by redspedic



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, But very subtle, Nightmares, Opium, Other, PTSD, Short, Short text, War, kind of a suicide wish at the end, mention of drug use, shovels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 09:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16951479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redspedic/pseuds/redspedic
Summary: Tommy thinks about his nightmares.





	no help

Thomas Shelby was a man who didn’t show his fear.  
His glare was always dismissive - he made others feel like he knew everything about them, their darkest secrets and their fear. Like he was always ahead of them, no matter what they had done behind his back.  
But he never let anyone see his fear. It would make him vulnerable and weak - he would lose his reputation as this unbreakable man; this man who had built the highest walls around him and not let anyone see him for himself; he only let people see what he wanted them to see.

But it wasn’t the case when Tommy was alone. Just him in the dark room with a lit candle and some recently smoked opium right next to it. He stared at the candle - the lonely candle, all by itself on the nightstand. Looking strong and firm like nothing could break through it - give it a little blow and it will go out.  
Just like him.  
And the opium, supposed to help with his memories from fucking up his brain and sleep schedule and in the end, being so shit at its job that he doesn’t get sleep at all sometimes.  
Wish he’d just pass out from all the drug use, he thought - _everyone_ probably thought, but he’s too pathetic to even do that. So he just turned his head and kept staring at the wall right next to him.

It’s not like Tommy couldn’t sleep at all after France. He sometimes could. It had just got to the point where he mostly didn’t and when he did, he kept having the same fucking dream all over and over. The shovels knocking on the wall, waiting for an invitation before thrusting in.  
Over the years, the sun mostly had made it before the men with the shovels got through. But these days it didn’t anymore. It wasn’t quick enough, Tommy knew, but he blamed it on its strength. It wasn’t strong enough to block them anymore. It wanted to rest and Tommy took the weight of the pain on his shoulders.

Getting choked and seeing all of Thomas’ friends die didn’t really tempt him to even want to fall asleep anymore. Time after time he tried and tried again, and when he got sleep, he woke up with ghost hands on his neck and sweat on his forehead. At one point, he decided it’d be better to just not rest at all, to not hear anything; to not see anything; to not feel any of it again.  
And when he didn’t fall asleep -  
He still heard the shovels.

Clank.

Clank.

Clank.

Clank.

_Clank._

Until the morning came and Tommy had to get up. Then he’d just hold his head in his hands and wish to end it all, for the people pointing guns at his head to actually shoot, but they never did. It was his charm probably, or maybe it was that he did not show fear.  
He never did. Never to anyone but to himself.  
And he wished that he wouldn’t have to see it either.


End file.
